


1744

by HoldHerTightAndSayHerName



Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Christmas, Do you know me?, F/M, Fluff, Happy Ending, Hogmanay, Hogmanay in Lallybroch, Holidays, Hurt/Comfort, Lallybroch, Rewriting Canon, and giving Claire and Jamie the happiness they deserved, well of course there's a touch of angst as well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-24 22:22:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22005424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoldHerTightAndSayHerName/pseuds/HoldHerTightAndSayHerName
Summary: December 31st, 1743. With Claire's help, Jamie made it out of Wentworth earlier than in the book. He gets to heal and celebrate Hogmanay in Lallybroch, surrounded by his loved ones.[Canon-divergent One-shot written for the Lallybroch Library Christmas Exchange. Prompt: "Total canon divergence, but Claire and Jamie celebrating Hogmanay at Lallybroch. Please, someone, rewrite canon for me, thanks!!!"]
Relationships: Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser
Comments: 69
Kudos: 316





	1744

**Author's Note:**

  * For [desperationandgin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/desperationandgin/gifts).



I woke up in the middle of the night, all my senses alert, ready to reach for my military apron and half-expecting to hear the sound of gunfire and dying men calling for their mothers. The waxing gibbous moon and the thick layer of snow gathering on the windowsill cast long shadows around the Laird’s bedroom, animating the figures on the blue tapestry with the strange illusion of life; as memories of the dream receded, I became acutely aware of Jamie’s ragged breathing next to me. Clearly, I wasn’t the only one whose sleep was tainted by the coppery shade of blood.

“Are you awake?”

My question came out as a whisper and remained unanswered. Slowly turning to my side, I faced the broad plane of my husband’s back, shaken by a constant tremor, and inhaled deeply, looking for the foul smell of pus behind the tang of sweat and the poultice of conifer resins, garlic and Saint John’s wort that hung in the bed. No — I knew the scars inflicted by Jack Randall were still raw behind the white dressing, but as far as I could tell, there was no sign of infection.

I had changed the gauze countless times over the past week, barely sleeping, bathing Jamie’s forehead and arms with a cloth wrung out in ice-cold water fetched by the servants of Eldridge Manor. The worst snow storm in a decade had kept us safe from the outside world, preventing the British troops from wandering too far from Wentworth Prison. Still, fear had been creeping under my skin, filling my whole being like a poison, and would have made me lose my mind, had I not been too busy tending to Jamie’s wounds. On the third day, we’d learned from the rumours carefully collected by the MacRannochs that our petition of complaint had finally been delivered to the Lord President of the Court of Session — and with Randall likely to be brought to court if he escaped gangrene, it seemed that Sir Fletcher had decided to hold off the search for one missing prisoner.

“No!”

In the darkness of the room, Jamie whimpered against the pillow, shaking his head back and forth furiously like an angry stallion, and I propped myself on my elbow to take a better look at him. Turned dark by the fever, the russet curls were plastered to his nape and forehead, and his face was set in a deep frown, the skin pulled tight against the bone. My throat constricted suddenly, noticing how he kept his injured hand clasped against his chest. For a second, I was transported to that filthy cell — Randall’s hand choking me; his filthy breath on my cheek; black stars obstructing my vision; Jamie offering to trade his body for my life; my dagger becoming an extension of my arm and cutting through the skin and muscle; the grotesquely limp body lying in a pool of blood; Jamie throwing up bile as I freed his hand from the table… To think of the endless list of horrors that would have awaited him, had I not been lucky or stupid enough to strike… Hot tears sprang to the corner of my eyes; in a flash of red anger, I remembered reading about Cromwell’s soldiers poisoning their musket balls, and found myself wishing I’d done the same with my _sgian dubh_.

“Rot in hell and be damned!”

 _Stop thinking,_ I admonished myself, _and do something._ Sweat was a good sign after all — it meant the fever was breaking. Tentatively, I placed a very light hand on the back of his neck, avoiding all the raw places. He winced and drew his knees up, but didn’t pull back.

“Jamie, wake up.”

This time, moved by my voice, he gasped and flipped over on the mattress, eyes wide open, squeezing my forearm until I felt the blood leave my hand and the bone creak in protest. I stifled a groan and fought the urge to try and break free of the iron grip.

“Listen to me,” I pleaded. “It’s alright. You’re home.”

The pressure on my arm increased, almost unbearable, and Jamie swore loudly in the dark. As weak as he was, I had no doubt that my husband was perfectly able to break my arm in his sleep, and the Frasers broken-bone count was high enough as it was. Whatever darkness lied in the corners of his mind, it wouldn't be defeated through physical strength — but my years in the army had taught me that there were other weapons I could bring to the battlefield. Clenching my teeth, I pressed my forehead against his and spoke with a steady voice, calling him with words that were ours and ours alone.

“You are Blood of my Blood…”

He must have heard me — his breath caught, and the shaking eased a little.

“...and Bone of my Bone.”

His gaze was still unfocused but the frown eased slightly; little by little, I felt his grip slacken and the blood flow back through my fingers, sending little sparks of pain under my nails.

“So long as we both shall live.”

A flicker seemed to cross his face — with a shudder, he closed his eyes and sighed deeply, a sigh heartbreakingly close to a sob. He didn't speak, but I knew he had come back to consciousness from the way his mouth was set in a hard, straight line. Cautiously, I reached again for his nape and slowly brushed his temple with my thumb, smoothing the hair that curled against the delicate shell of the ear, until his heartbeat slowed. After a while, he turned his head to kiss my palm.

“I'm sorry, Sassenach.”

“Don’t be,” I answered with a deceptively light tone. “It's only the fever breaking. How are you feeling?”

He answered with a noncommittal noise and shifted uncomfortably on the mattress. Trying to hide my concern, I passed him a cup of water that he drank avidly before wiping the sweat from his brow and laying back on the pillow.

“Tell me about yer day,” he said, closing his eyes and patting my thigh in reassurance. “What was this stramash I heard earlier?”

“Ah,” I smiled. “That would be wee Jamie and the ghost.”

We had made it to Lallybroch right in time for Hogmanay, finding comfort and solace in the place that had become our home. Reassured by my husband’s bad temper, a sign that healing was under way, I’d let him sleep and spent the whole day with Jenny, cleaning, brushing, scrubbing and polishing before the New Year, sweeping out the fireplace and burning juniper branches to fill the house with smoke, which was believed to have a cleansing effect and drive evil spirits away. Sneaking into the kitchen to stick his fingers in a jar of honey, wee Jamie had come face to face with one of the hounds, sneezing and wheezing, emerging from the smoke like a demon from the underworld. It had taken our combined efforts (and Mrs. Crook’s fresh bannocks) to convince him to come out from under his bed.

“Hmmphm,” Jamie smiled. “That’ll teach him, I suppose.”

“He spilled the whole jar, but we couldn’t even be upset at him,” I remembered, laying back on my pillow. “The poor thing was terrified.”

These last words got caught in my throat, and Jamie’s injured fingers twitched uneasily against my thigh, the memory of fear still too fresh in both our minds.

“He’s alright, though,” I swallowed, and managed to smile. “I took him to the woods afterwards.”

“Oh, aye?” Jamie snorted. “A walk at sunset with the _ban-druidh?_ I didna think ye a vengeful woman, Sassenach.”

“Don’t be silly,” I rolled my eyes and slowly moved his head until it rested on my shoulder. “He helped me gather plants to place above the door. For protection.” 

I laced my fingers in his hair, tugging gently on the soft curls, trying to bring him even closer.

“I knew ye’d been foraging,” he said softly. “Ye looked that pleased wi’ yerself, and ye still smell of green moss and running rivers.”

“Hmm.” With my nails, I traced the old scar at the back of his skull, the solidness of his neck, and felt him sigh against my shoulder. “We picked rowan for luck, holly to keep the fairies out...”

Jamie’s head was growing heavier on my shoulder, and I brought the covers up to our chins. It was a very cold night — I could see a thin layer of feathery ice crystals on the window.

“Hazel to protect the household, and mistletoe...”

“...to prevent illness, I ken that one,” he mumbled tiredly, resting his injured hand on my stomach. “But I’ve already got ye for that, Sassenach.”

“Well, that’s not exactly the same thing,” I snorted against his hair. “We don’t want to put all our eggs in one basket, do we?”

His only answer was another low Scottish noise, and I remained silent, stroking his hair until his breathing deepened and I was sure he was asleep. How I wished it could be that easy — to hang a few branches on our door, conjure the Highlands’ ancient spirits as the earth finished another revolution around the sun, and keep him safe, always. But unlike what everyone seemed to believe, I wasn’t a _ban-druidh_ — I had learned the hard way that our survival hung to a tenuous thread of hope, stubbornness and luck; so fine; so easily broken. For the time being, my meager efforts would have to do.

I stared at the ceiling and didn’t sleep again until the first glimmer of dawn.

***

In the morning, Jamie seemed in better spirits and even managed a short walk in the snow with Ian before retiring to our bedroom. Life in Lallybroch wasn’t exactly _eventful_ — but it helped restore a sense of normality that was both comforting and a little unsettling. After spending hours cooking for the evening’s feast and trying to soothe little Maggie’s sore gums, I suddenly felt more exhausted than I’d ever remembered in my life, and the sounds and smells of the kitchen began to make me a little queasy. As I walked up the stairs, coaxed by Jenny to go upstairs for a short nap, I heard Gaelic and paused by our door to listen.

“And John said to himself, ‘tis no’ canny for me to walk this wood alone…” Propped up against the pillows, his young nephew on his lap, Jamie looked right and left, as if fearing an imaginary threat. “The night was coming, and growing pretty dark. So John tied his white horse to a tree and went up in the top himself...”

My heart squeezed, filled with an overwhelming tenderness. The scene I was witnessing felt like a glimpse into a possible future — one that had almost been taken away from me on more than one occasion; one that might never come about, but that still felt within our reach, thank God. Lost in his own story, Jamie started to growl in a low voice.

“Later, he woke up and saw a bear coming with a fiery cinder in his mouth! _Come down, son of the king of Erin,_ said the bear.”

“And then what happened, Uncle Jamie?”

I couldn’t stifle a laugh at my husband’s dramatic pause; as I stepped inside the room, he raised his head to meet my eyes with a warm and sudden smile.

“Uncle Jamie! What did the bear say?”

“I’ll tell ye at supper, _a bhalaich_. But I need to rest wi’ yer auntie now.”

Apparently, this answer was far from satisfactory to our little guest who protested vehemently, with a small but passionate voice.

“Here’s a thought,” I flapped my hand, not willing to let the child’s frustration escalate to a tantrum. “Why don't you lads scoot your fine little buttocks over there, so I can listen to the end of the story?”

I nestled against Jamie as he wrapped a strong, solid arm around me. Facing us, sitting cross-legged on the coverlet, his nephew was staring, the big hazel eyes unblinking — eagerly expecting the return of the Brown Bear of the Green Glen.

“ _If_ _thou wilt not come down, I will go up, said_ the bear,” Jamie growled. “So John drew down, and they came to chatting.”

My eyelids began to grow heavy, lulled by the deep, soothing voice and the slow, thudding rhythm of his heart.

“ _Now,_ said the bear, _lie down between my paws, and thou will have no cause to fear cold or hunger till morning_.”

 _Well, that must be nice,_ I thought dimly, _if not for the smell, I suppose_. Perhaps I had spoken aloud — the last thing I heard was a low rumble of laughter under my cheek.

***

The night came and we gathered around the table, feasting on scotch broth soup, rabbit pie, cabbage and roasted potatoes dripping with butter. Since the circumstances of Jamie’s arrest by the Redcoats were still unsolved, no tenant had been invited to celebrate, but the atmosphere felt quietly joyful, and my earlier feeling of unease was replaced by a delicious mixture of fatigue and cheerfulness.

After the previous day’s clean-up, the floor had been polished and the fireplace adorned with branches, spruce and dried berries, filling the room with the comforting smells of smoke, burning wood, beeswax and fresh pine needles. Filling our glasses with wine, Ian sang proud verses about the beauty of the land while Jenny watched and smiled, her face soft and serene, holding their daughter against her breast. 

From across the table, I stole a glance at my own husband. Sitting next to Murtagh, he was still very pale, but the dark circles and the cuts under his eyes didn’t stand out quite as much. His hand was laid on my home-made splint, wrapped in a white dressing and concealed under the plaid of his kilt, that encircled his chest and left shoulder. The candles scattered across the room lit his hair in a thousand flames, painting his face in gold, and I itched to lean over and press my lips against his, savouring the knowledge that I would lie beside him before the night was over.

As the evening went on, Mrs. Crook served her famous Clottie Dumpling stuffed with spices and dried fruit, and the conversation drifted toward the very Scottish tradition of “first-footing”. When the clock struck midnight, everyone would be expecting the first-foot to cross Lallybroch’s threshold, carrying symbolic gifts — but who would it be? Any acceptable candidate had to be tall, handsome, dark-haired, without a limp, stammer or other physical handicap.

“Look at us,” Ian smiled sarcastically. “A gathering of lame ducks, so we are. Jamie is a redhead anyway; my leg is missing, and Murtagh… well, it’s Murtagh.”

The latter raised his glass and threw him a partially toothless grin, while the table cheered and laughed.

“What about Wee Jamie?” Jenny suggested.

“His hair is too fair, love.”

Seeing his son ready to protest, Ian gathered him on his knee and stuck a toffee into his mouth, while the debate heated up.

“Maybe we should ask—”

“And what if—”

“Claire should be the one to do it.”

Jamie had spoken calmly and without the trace of a doubt, but my eyes widened in surprise. In these parts of Scotland, women were generally deemed unlucky on the first day of the year, even in the twentieth century. Silence hung thick in the air for a few seconds, until Jenny spoke.

“Have ye lost yer mind, _a brathair_?” she laughed. “I mean no offence, Claire, but I’ve never heard of a woman being first-foot.”

“None taken,” I smiled gracefully. “Your sister is right, Jamie, I don’t think—”

“Without ye, _m’fhortan,_ I’d be long dead,” Jamie interrupted quietly. “So would Jenny and her bairn. Ye’ve been nothing but a blessing to this family. I canna think of anyone else to determine the fate of this household, may God protect us all.”

A long silence ensued; none of us seemed either able to inclined to talk.

“Tall, dark-haired, beautiful, and a stranger,” Jenny sighed. “Aye, I suppose she’ll do.”

And just like that, it was decided. Wrapped in my thick cloak lined with fur, I was rushed outside with a basket filled with coal, black buns, salt and whisky, while Jamie stood at the front door, opened it wide, and held it open — letting the Old Year out and the New Year in. I stood quietly in the snow, under the courtyard arch, staring at my husband’s tall and dark silhouette against the light. When the last stroke of midnight died away, he smiled and shut the door quietly behind him.

I admired the stars and the crystal-clear sky above, allowing for some time to pass. It was a very cold night — a night to savour friendships, to stand together holding hands, to whisper secret names in the sanctuary of a bedroom. At last, rejoicing in the soft crunch of the snow under my footsteps, I made way towards the house.

The door opened, and I found everyone standing in line in the corridor, expecting me. Oddly moved by the strange and solemn silence of the place, I gave the gifts to Jamie with trembling hands, went straight to the fireplace, and placed the lump of coal upon the unlit fire. I thought I heard a slight exhale of relief — at least the _sassenach_ had gone by the book. Moving intently, Jamie bent down to lit the fire, and we stood in a circle, holding our collective breath. When the first flames licked up the sides of the log, the room erupted in applause and Jenny handed me a glass of whisky — but already Jamie was bending towards me; in a swift movement, he gathered me against his chest, laced the fingers of his good hands in my hair, and kissed me. 

***

When we went back to ourselves a few minutes later, everyone was singing and dancing, and the children had already started to request their “hogmanays” — slices of cheese and bannocks, and silver coins for good fortune. I remembered it was customary to give gifts on the first of January; from what I’d seen, they far outshone those given at Christmas. I turned my face towards Jamie and kissed him again, softly.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get you anything.”

Looking down, he brushed the hair back from my temple and shot me a strange look, his gaze wandering over my face, over and over again, like a caress.

“Did ye not, then, _m’annsachd_ _?_ ”

My breath caught, and I stared wordlessly as my husband placed his good hand on my flat stomach, harbouring the promise of a new year.

**Author's Note:**

> \- m’fhortan: my luck  
> \- m’annsachd: my blessing  
> \- source of the tale of the Brown Bear of the Green Glen: Popular Tales of the West Highlands, by J. F. Campbell


End file.
